


The Godfather

by rushie



Series: Hot Uncle Sirius [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-22 21:51:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4851731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rushie/pseuds/rushie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a quick & happy au where Harry's parents were still killed but isn't left totally alone with the Dursleys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Godfather

Mrs. Petunia Dursley had been putting up with her nephew for all of a week now when the mysterious man showed up on her doorstep. 

It was trying enough putting up with one baby--although little Dudley was just showing off what a set of lungs he had, and she was _so proud_ \--let alone two, and when one of them caused magical accidents to happen here and there throughout the day, it was enough to make her want to tear out her hair. Just yesterday, Mrs. Next Door had shrieked in alarm and threatened to call the police on her when she spotted little Harry sitting in the tree in the backyard, playing with a squirrel. Petunia, who'd had both babies sitting comfortably in their chairs in the shade while she worked on the garden, was furious, but held her tongue. She made some nonsensical comment about babies getting into everything and prattled on in that way until Mrs. Next Door went back inside. Then she had to go and fetch the ladder to get her nephew out of the tree.

Young Harry had also been responsible for exploding the microwave, changing the television channels without the remote, and probably the spider infestation in the cupboard under the stairs, although that one was harder to prove. Maybe if Mrs. Next Door _did_  call the police, she would have the wretched child taken away from her to plague somebody else, but they would probably take Dudley, too, and she couldn't have that.

She had not been to her brother-in-law and sister's funeral. She wasn't even sure if _their kind_  had funerals, although she supposed that they must. Perhaps it was in bad form, but with her parents dead for several years now and no one to force her to go, she had been content to stay home. She had two children to mind now, and, what's more, she found it was easier if she just didn't think about what had happened to Harry's parents. That smacked too much of sentimentality, and Petunia Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive had no time for such things.

As much as she doted on her son, she looked forward to the babies' naptime. It allowed her to sit and flip through one of her magazines, or to spy on the neighbors and see what they were up to--maybe she could threaten to call the police on Mrs. Next Door for something and then they would be even in their mutual blackmail possession. It was during one such afternoon respite that she heard the extremely loud sound of a motorbike engine, coming down the street. It was a veritable roar, and she slapped her magazine back down onto the coffee table. The babies were already wailing, woken up by the noise, and she muttered a string of swears under her breath about these good-for-nothings who rode about on those twisted metal death traps. The youth these days--she liked to ignore the fact that she was still fairly young herself--were horrible, and she had no time for hoodlums. She would have to report this to someone--there could have been a _gang_.

She was halfway to the room where the babies had been napping when the doorbell rang. She hesitated, uncertain, but then the doorbell rang again, and she spun in the direction of the front hall to give whomever was so impatient a piece of her mind.

The motorcycle engine had stopped rumbling.

She swung open the door amid the cacophony of wailing baby, and her tirade died on her lips. On the doorstep stood perhaps the most attractive young man Petunia had ever seen, and even his scruffy and good-for-nothing attire couldn't dampen his looks. He was removing a pair of aviator sunglasses and hanging them on the front of his t-shirt. There were dark circles around his eyes, as if he had not slept in several days, but they only added to his roguish appeal rather than diminish it. He leaned against the doorframe in his leather jacket and ripped jeans and motorcycle boots like a king, his too-long hair (Petunia tried to dredge up something scathing to say about it, but her mind had sputtered to a halt) windblown. A motorbike with an attached sidecar was parked in front of her drive.

She thought maybe she was having a stroke.

"Hello," the young man said, and he sounded amused. Petunia closed her mouth. "I'm here to see my godson."


End file.
